“It’s going to be so fun. Give me a list of the people who have your pieces. We need a photo shoot, including the Miller’s cabin. Then we’ll sketch out a marketing plan.”
She keeps at it with a contagious enthusiasm, and I feel the tiniest flicker of hope that I’ll be OK.
Once we upload more of my restored works on the website and post more on social media, my phone starts ringing more often. They’re mostly small projects, some rooms, or beloved pieces of furniture that are destined for a new life.
My big break came recently when Valerie invited me to view one of the houses on the other side of the lake in a few weeks. It’s a big deal and the nerves get to me even before I’ve set foot in that house.
Since the day I quit, I’ve chased every workshop, free event, and product presentation around Maine and places close enough to drive. A month into this routine, Clara summons me to another brunch that, what a surprise, is in the city where I’m spending this weekend. I could call the first two times after Portland coincidences, but the strings she’s pulling are starting to show.
“They’re expecting us at the League of Women Voter Brunch tomorrow in Montpelier. My car will pick you up at nine. I’ll be at the salon.”
Sometimes she spices things up and drags me to do our hair and makeup together where she drones on and on about who’ll be there and what everybody’s deal is. When I stopped blocking her out, I found that her insights are actually useful and made my life easier.
There’s no point in arguing.
“How did you know I’m in Vermont?”
Clara chuckles in that elegant way of hers. “Our security team keeps tabs on people close to the family,” she says before hanging up, leaving me to scowl at the floral roll of wallpaper I’m using for inspiration.
The woman drives me insane with her entitled demands and general high-brow attitude. The fact that I adore her daughter is her saving grace. And that I’m still stupidly in love with Carter. And maybe the fact that I did pick up some useful mannerisms after I paid more attention. At least the hypervigilance I developed in foster care is good for something. I mirror everything, from the way they hold their glasses, to how they eat and sit in their chairs. Conversations don’t feel the same as interrogational torture anymore.
After the first hour of networking my stomach sounds like an angry goose and Clara gives me a disapproving side-eye.
“It’s not my fault I didn’t have time to eat before the car came,” I mumble and spot the basket with the small loaves of bread and the butter you could swear is soap.
Clara gently taps my elbow before I use the large metallic plate in front of me. That’s rude. Can’t I even eat? The waiter brings in the appetizer a split second later and sets a small pink plate on the larger silver one already on the table.
“That’s called a charger plate,” she bends slightly and whispers in my ear. “It’s decorative.”
I sigh, a little disappointed in myself. Impressing these ladies is my chance to get them as clients, but sometimes the gap between our upbringings feels more of a canyon.
My eyes shut and I do my best to regroup.I’m smart. I’m strong. I’m creative.The phantom grip of Quinn’s strong hold still pulses in my cheeks, lifting my spirits.
“I don’t understand why you want me to come to these events,” I say, genuinely curious and a little deflated. I’m not even mad about it anymore. I’ve got a lot more out of them than I could’ve ever imagined a month ago.
“I’ve always hated to attend these things alone,” she says, a little crease appearing between her perfect eyebrows, a hint of worry in her blue eyes.
“Why not take Jackie?”
Clara smiles. “She only attends the big ones now. But she had her proper introduction when she was younger.”
“Not to sound unappreciative, but whyme?” I don’t know how else to stress how absurd I find her focus on me.
“Why not?” She shrugs, dainty and feminine. “You’re not such bad company.”
Great. I’m having brunch with the Riddler. This woman is infuriating.
“My friend Irma wants to talk to you.” She waves over a short platinum-haired older lady wearing a hemp dress. “Beware. She’s obsessed with fuchsia and fiberglass.”
Mike’s house is the very definition ofA roof over my head and the hinges on my front door make for a livable home. I grew fond of him after all the time Quinn made us spend together this summer. I don’t know if it’s for his benefit, because he doesn’t know many people around here, or because she’s afraid I’d become one with my couch and let nature swallow up the house with me in it.
“Come here,” Mike beckons, grabbing Quinn by the middle. He’s a simple man, happy with a rough-looking couch and the things left behind by the former owner. There’s something comforting about the way he carries himself and I’m over the moon for the goofy smile on Quinn’s face, so I don’t mind third wheeling most of the time.
“Don’t creep her out. She spooks easily.” Quinn laughs and swats him, shaking her head.
We’re sitting on the lake shore, on a large driftwood trunk, chatting and soaking up September’s mild warmth.
“Are your folks from here?” Mike asks, taking a swig of his beer.
